The CrazyEyed Hurricane
by Zeech
Summary: He is nothing of the man she knew. He is nothing of the man who loved her. She had thought the Commodore to be dead, and as the hours pass, and he ignores her tears, she is convinced she was right. James Norrington is dead. Slight AU. Certainly veers.
1. Chapter 1

**The Crazy-Eyed Hurricane**

**Part I**

Elizabeth is separated from the others. She is no longer driven by morals, or passion, or love of the wrong man, she is driven by fear, and hate, and a deepening despair that grows with every beat in the rhythm of her flight. When the Pearl ran aground, and there was nothing left to do but fight hand to hand she was left on the beach. When she learned that, above all else, the men doing Beckett's work were pursuing her she found nothing to do but run. The beaches became trees, and it was in the belly and tangle of the trees and vines that she lost her cutlass to the men who had followed her. They tied her ankles and her wrists with long, individual pieces of rope, all tied to a very long piece of rope that, when she finally was able to shoot one of them, she did not have time to remove herself.

The belly of the tangle of trees has become a dark forest now, and all she can think to do is run. Fear drives her, and pushes her forward despite the lost strength and weakening will to continue. The blood down the front of her shirt, and staining her trousers is not hers, and carries a deep stench of death, and leaves a trail to be followed. Never looking behind her, she continues to run, and can feel the knots around her ankles and wrists begin to tighten, and chafe. It occurs to her that someone on the end of that long rope has caught her already, and merely waits for the moment she decides that running will not save her.

Elizabeth has been running for what feels like hours, and the constant fear of the rope will not allow her to stop, not even to try and remove it from her ankles and hands. Elizabeth can only run.

The fear turns to horror when she feels resistance about her ankles, and knows she has but seconds before she comes to the ground, hard. Her wrists are jerked far back behind her, and she stumbles over her own feet. Elizabeth lets the rope take her, finally, and hits the ground hard. The rope is taught at her sides, and she lay helplessly to be collected like game after a hunt. There is grit in her mouth, in her eyes, and the smell of the stale blood sickens her, and she gags in the still air. She cannot quite remember when last she cried, and does not wish to do so now, in front of her captors. She is no longer a little girl, she tells herself, and closes her eyes hard. That all came to an end the day she made the choice to kill a man.

And so she will not cry now, but she will wait. She waits in silence, and cannot decided whether or not she is too afraid to at least feel the relief of her cooling legs, exhausted and spent on the floor of the jungle. She has been running, and fighting for so long now. Perhaps letting go will be less painful, even if it is in the darkness of surrender. When she hears the footsteps of another---not a posse of men, but a single rhythm of step---she begins to think of Will. She wonders where he is now, and if he would hear her cries for help. She wonders if Jack would come to save her, or simply stand over her in a distant pity, knowing exactly what it is to face death, because she once inflicted the same sad, desperate horror upon him. She wonders if they even survived the battle with Beckett's men.

In her own darkness she can feel hands, strong and quiet and dangerous, coming under her tired body. She is lifted off of the ground with not so much as a grunt from the stranger, and her head lolls limply to fall against his chest. He, too, smells of blood and smoke. Elizabeth does not open her eyes, and she does not wish to see her huntsman, but does not immediately feel as though he wishes to harm her. His touch is not gentle, but it is not cruel. It is simply deliberate.

"Who are you," she murmurs, and is able to lift her head only so slightly to try and see the face of the man who holds her life in his hands. He does not reply, and nor does he need to. Through the shadow of his long dark brown hair that is loosely pulled back from his face, and the scruff of an unshaven chin she recognizes him. He is nothing of the man she knew. He is nothing of the man who loved her. Even in the night she can see empty eyes that react to nothing, a blank expression. He is simply not the same person, and Elizabeth forgets her strict resistance against the tears she knew would come. They are silent, but she knows that he can hear her. She had thought the Commodore to be dead after the quarrel on the island, and as the hours pass, and he ignores her tears, she is convinced she was right. James Norrington is dead. His death was a lonely one, brought on by madness, or jealousy, or a broken heart at the open end of a bottle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

Elizabeth has not been home for months now, and yet even in the comfort of what used to be her room she still feels like an alien in a new, savage landscape. Beckett has doubled the insult by making her fathers house his headquarters, but not the hurt. Elizabeth wanders her own halls freely, and feels nothing. She suspects she was taken to this place because it was hers—an intended reminder of loss—and yet Elizabeth has already carried that loss, and hurt, until it went away, deep inside herself. She does not expect it to return.

She has been here almost a full week, and cannot plan a proper escape. She idly walks the staircases, running her hands down the elaborate rail, and finds herself staring out windows for a great amount of the time she wastes. Sometimes she sees the Commodore, or the Admiral, or the Huntsman as she has begun to call him, passing by. Lord Beckett gives him various tasks, and like a battered guard dog he obeys. Sometimes, she finds him looking at her, and wonders if he can still remember if she was ever his friend.

Elizabeth stops lightly at the end of the stairs when a marine coat blocks her view of the great double doors. The marine nods to the top of the stairs, and Elizabeth strains her neck to turn and see.

"Lord Beckett requests a word, m'lady," the marine says. "In his office."

"In my father's study," she replies evenly. "Of course." He begins to move around her on the stairs to lead her there, and Elizabeth holds a hand up. "Thank you, I know the way." She does know the way, and has been eagerly awaiting a chance to see the man who ordered her father's execution. For a week now she has been hoping he might grant her an audience—at first to kill him, somehow someway. As the days passed, and her chances of escape lessened and disappeared entirely she wondered if she could. She wonders, now, if she can. It was not so easy to kill a friend, she thought—until it occurred to her that Jack was not a friend. Not really. Hardly an ally, and though she would not refuse Beckett's untimely death, she is not so sure it would heal her wounds. Elizabeth is certainly not sure she could kill again.

Yet there he is, in her father's study with his head bent and his brow furrowed---not quite so tall as keeps remembering him to be---with his forefinger delicately tracing lines on a map. There is a glass of port in his hand, and when he looks up to see her his eyes are almost lazy, and complacent. He is so certain of himself, because he is a man who is never out of control. Beckett thrives in control, and so he is always sure to keep his hands on it.

"Miss Swann, yes," Beckett murmurs, almost to himself, and sets the glass of port down beside his beloved map. He does not offer her a glass of her own, and does not even motion for her to take a seat. He, however, restlessly settles himself into a big, red armchair that used to belong to her father. He cocks his head when he catches her staring, but does not seem at all interested her in focus on the chair. "Six days seems quite a long time for your friends to plan a rescue. Why do you suppose they're late?"

"Well, up until a moment ago I didn't even know they were alive, so," Elizabeth smiles, and takes a seat in one of the chairs along the giant table, sitting back and putting her legs up upon it's corner. "Thank you, for putting my mind at ease. Though I am sorry if it were at the expense of your bargaining chip… though I'm sure you'll think of some new leverage to question me with."

Beckett returns the smile, and his eyes roll to a corner of the ceiling. "Of course. I do, actually, have a question for you to consider. Do you know why I haven't sent you to the gallows yet? Why your pretty feet aren't dangling from the yardarm?"

"It crossed my mind."

"The black smith I don't want," Beckett continues without missing a beat, and leans forward to take his glass back in his hand. He downs a long swallow of the wine and glances down at the bottom of the glass, swishing once or twice. "Jack Sparrow… I don't see him as anymore trouble, or use to me either way. I have the Commodore." Blue eyes, pale and shallow as death, flick up to meet hers. "That leaves you. Norrington was not so difficult to persuade, and I see much of him in yourself. I thought perhaps you would be almost as willing to save your neck as he was."

"The Commodore is a murderer now," Elizabeth's words are clipped. "He chose to be like you. He sold his soul to be with you."

"It certainly seems that way," Beckett does not challenge her. Instead, he simply comes to his feet. "I am only suggesting that you could benefit me more if you were alive, and on my tether. You will find, Miss Swann, that there is much more freedom in being aligned with society's law, then against it." The corner of his mouth twists into a wry smile. "No matter how unjust you think it can be. Consider my offer. And get out of my study."

--- --- ---

_He has the compass. He has the heart of Davy Jones. He has Davy Jones himself to do his bidding_. Somewhere inside, Elizabeth imagines she knows perfectly well what Beckett could possibly want with her, but to openly wonder about it would bring her into a cruel, new reality. She thinks perhaps it would be better to avoid such a thought, and concentrate more on getting out of this prison that was her home. She cannot help but keep thinking that if there were such a way to escape, she would not get far. Port Royal is very small---it is almost impossible to seek cover as outlaw here. She can't help but keep thinking of the man that would be sent out to find her, and the four ropes around her wrists and ankles.

In the afternoon, it rains. Elizabeth keeps herself seated by the great windows in the drawing room. She has not been offered dinner since the night before last, and to her own surprise it is only now that her belly begins to rumble, and turn. She is hungry, and the hard patter of the rain on the glass, and the fogged grey windows seem to strangle her in this giant room. She touches her throat, and then her chest, and tries to breathe in evenly. It does not come as easily as she thought it might. Elizabeth closes her eyes, tight. In the darkness she finds no comfort.

"Miss Swann," it is that skittish young eastern woman she always sees coming in and out of Beckett's quarters. Elizabeth is not so ignorant to think that a woman in a long red dress, with tumbling dark hair and a quiet, beautiful face is simply a maid. She is more or less aware what this woman is, but makes no judgments, and politely turns to face her with no smile. "I was wondering if you would join me for dinner. The admiral tells me you have only been eating what has been sent to your room."

"I expect that is the treatment of a prisoner," Elizabeth replies, indifferently. Her eyes flick back to the window. "And I find no reason to ease the 'admiral's' mind."

The woman is quiet a moment, and seems to be studying her shoes with her hands folded over her middle. She glances up again, shyly, and with the slightest hint of an accent offers again. "Please Miss Swann. It would greatly ease mine."

"I thank you for your concern," Elizabeth says quickly, and lifts her chin. "But I will not at eat at the table with Cutler Beckett. I refuse." She watched as the face of the woman brightened a little, and the smile, however guarded and shy, came back to light her face.

"Beckett has left for a few days. It will be you and I, I promise. Come," she reaches out, and waves a delicate hand away from the window. "There is a goose roasting. Won't you share it with me?" Elizabeth keeps her stern expression, and briefly tries to make out this woman's intentions. She is a mistress of the man who killed her father, and yet does not seem close to the man at all. Elizabeth feels as though she knows the part deep inside this woman that probably hates him as much as she.

She also feels her stomach rumble, and turn with hunger.

"I suppose… if he is not here, I will keep you company."

--- --- ---


End file.
